


Three Times Harry Hart Gets Left at the Alter

by AgentStannerShipper



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, M/M, Weddings, almost golden circle compliant, harry hart is unlucky in love, merlahad is endgame, minus the character death, seriously this boy cant catch a break, tiny bit of mission fic in there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 07:30:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12552344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper/pseuds/AgentStannerShipper
Summary: and one time he doesn't.Exactly what it sounds like.





	Three Times Harry Hart Gets Left at the Alter

**Author's Note:**

> ...I watched The Accidental Husband and had some thoughts on Colin Firth/Harry Hart and rom com tropes.  
>  Not betaed or Brit-picked, so let me know if there are any issues.

1.

“What do you think?” Harry spreads his hands self-consciously and gestures down at himself. The tuxedo fits like a glove, of course, but he still feels a bit uncomfortable in it. It’s not that he’s not used to dressing up, but this particular suit carries a bit more weight than usual, and it’s the gravity of the situation that has Harry off balance.

“You look very handsome,” his father reassures him.

“Just like your father on our wedding day!” his mother adds. She bustles over, her dress rustling against the floor, and busies herself with his bowtie.

His father sweeps her into his arms before she can get too carried away, “Come now, darling, leave the boy alone. He’s getting married.”

“Exactly! And he should look perfect doing it.”

“I’m fine, Mother, really,” Harry says, when really he’s anything but. The butterflies in his stomach might actually be moths instead, scratching at his insides. Still, he puts on a smile, “Go on then. Why don’t you take your seat?”

Before she can protest, Harry’s mother is steered out into the corridor. His father throws a knowing smile over his shoulder, and Harry nods thankfully. One fretting person is enough for this tiny room; if Harry had to watch his mother work herself into a panic he might not have been able to go through with it.

He studies his reflection in the mirror. “You can do this,” he tells himself. It doesn’t sound even remotely convincing. Still, he puts on a beaming fake smile, one he’s long since perfected, and turns to follow his parents.

When he steps out to take his place at the end of the aisle, he barely sees the church, overwhelming white made even worse by the drapery of white flowers everywhere. It wasn’t his idea to get married indoors; he’d pushed for a garden wedding, somewhere with lots of lovely natural flowers in a rainbow of colours. But Lucile had insisted, and so Harry had bent to her will.

“Here Comes the Bride” pipes up on the organ (also Lucile’s choice. Harry had hoped for something a little more interesting, but Lucile was nothing if not traditional) and Harry’s throat tightens. He’s vaguely aware that his hands are shaking, and he clasps them tightly behind his back to hide them.

The song plays through Lucile’s cue. The organ player stutters, and then hesitantly starts again. The second time through, the doors open, and Harry’s heart picks up, but it’s not Lucile walking down the aisle.

Her maid of honour, Debbie, makes it to the end of the aisle amid the murmuring of the guests and stops directly in front of Harry. Her painted lips are twisted in apology, and her glossy nails toy with the edge of the envelope before she hands it over to him. It’s damp when Harry touches it, but it takes him a moment to realize that the source of the moisture is his sweating hands, not the paper.

He slips the stationary out.

_Dear Harry,_

_I’m sorry. I-_

He crumples up the paper and storms back down the aisle, whispers falling on his deaf ears as the blood rushes loudly enough to block all else out. He keeps his head down, fighting back the tears brewing behind his eyes, and marches out of the church and down the front steps.

There’s a little garden behind the church, and in it a single stone bench, worn and faded with age. Once, when Harry was five years old, he’d sat on the bench for three hours, watching a butterfly craw its way out of a chrysalis and dry its wings in the sun. He sits on it now and squints through the tears that he can’t hold back any longer, turning the wrinkled envelope over in his hands.

He pulls out the letter again.

_Dear Harry,_

_I’m sorry. I know this is unbelievably cruel of me, but I hope you’ll find it in yourself to forgive me someday. You always did have such a big heart. It’s one of many things about you that I love. You’re so kind, Harry, so full of love, and I dearly hope this doesn’t change that about you._

_I do love you, I promise, but I just couldn’t do it. We’re eighteen, for goodness sake, Harry! We have our whole lives ahead of us; what are we thinking, jumping into marriage? I’m sorry I couldn’t say this to you in person, but I couldn’t bear to see the look on your face. I really am sorry. For everything._

_With all my love,_

_Lucile_

Harry coughs out the next sob, trying to choke it back and failing miserably. Fat teardrops rolls down his cheeks and land on the card, smudging Lucile’s elegant, looping penmanship.

“You were my best friend,” he tells the letter, as if Lucile could somehow hear him through the paper. “You were my best friend, and I loved you.” Not in the way that really mattered, of course, but he did. Enough to marry her. Enough to be willing to start a life, a family with her. After all, Harry knows he’ll never get the life he secretly dreams about, tucked into the farthest corners of his mind and cherished but never spoken of. He can’t have that, but he can have Lucile. Or…well, he supposes he can’t have her either.

Harry’s mother sits down next to him on the bench and pulls him into a tight hug. He tries to pull away, “Mother, no. I’ll ruin your dress.”

“Hush,” she scolds him, and keeps him there. “My baby is more important than some piece of fabric. You just cry, darling. I’m here. It’ll all be okay, you’ll see.”

Harry sits there with her a long while, cries until the river dries up and her shoulder is well and truly soaked through, and then he sits up and clears his throat and they walk back to the church together to clean up the mess.

No one who knows him can quite meet his eyes after that. A fact of Harry’s status, well, his family’s status, is that they have to attend a number of lavish parties, and every time Harry goes he can hear the whispers following him around. He sees Lucile, sending him guilty looks from across the room, and each time is a fresh stab in his barely-healing heart.

Harry goes and joins the army. Getting shot can’t hurt much worse than this.

 

2.

“Oh dear lord, this is happening.” Harry is halfway to hyperventilating, the room suddenly too stuffy for him to breathe properly. The suit feels familiar now, at least, and Harry’s not sure if it’s due the influence of Kingsman or the fact that this is his second go-around so he knows more or less what to expect.

Hamish raises an eyebrow, “Really? You’ve been planning this for months, and it’s only just now occurred you that this is happening?”

Harry gives his best man – his best friend – a filthy look, “I _knew_ it was happening. I just didn’t _know_ it was happening.”

“Yes, because that makes perfect sense,” Hamish says dryly.

“Do shut up, Hamish,” Harry tells him. “It’s my wedding day.”

“Merlin, Harry. I’ve asked you to call me Merlin.”

Harry pouts, “I don’t know why you hate your name so much, _Merlin_. Hamish is a perfectly good name.”

“I do suppose it could be worse, _Reginald_ ,” Hamish teases.

Harry hits him, a playful slap across the shoulders, “That’s my middle name, and it’s entirely different.”

“If you say so.”

The music starts, and the panic that had left Harry rushes at him again. Hamish catches his eye, “Ready?”

Harry nods, but he can’t make his feet move. Hamish rolls his eyes and pushes Harry towards the door, and Harry stumbles forward and then catches himself and keeps going. Hamish follows behind him, and while Harry still wishes it was an outdoor wedding, at least this isn’t a church. Not that Harry knows any churches that will marry someone like him in a wedding like this. It’s a tiny ceremony, only a few of Harry and Mark’s closest friends attending. Not even Kingsman knows what’s going on. If Chester found out that Harry was gay, he’d probably fire him on the spot. Or at least do his best to ensure that Harry’s next mission is his last.

Thank goodness Hamish is Harry’s primary handler. His best friend hates Chester just as much as Harry does, and would probably risk his own job backing Harry up.

He gets to the end of the aisle and waits. Hamish settles by his side. When Harry finds himself bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet, Hamish reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder. Harry looks back at him, and his friend raises an eyebrow in silent question.

Harry takes a deep breath and gives a minute nod in answer. He’s ready. He can do this.

Half an hour later, it becomes apparent that Mark can’t. Harry has his bowtie loose, the top few buttons of his shirt undone, and he’s sitting on the steps of the building alone when Mark finally deigns to make an appearance, decidedly _not_ in a suit. He doesn’t even look apologetic when he says, “I’m sorry.”

“If you were going to break my heart, you could have at least had the decency to do it on time,” Harry snaps. His voice is dry and harsh; he’s learned to hold back the tears, even though it makes him feel hollow inside. He can cry later, when no one is watching.

“Yes, because Harry ‘sorry I’m late’ Hart is going to give me a lecture on punctuality,” Mark teases. Harry’s eyes harden, and Mark sobers up, “Look. Harry. We both knew this wasn’t going to work out.”

“I didn’t know,” Harry says.

“You’re never home! You’re always out of the country, and when you are here you spend half the time talking to Hamish instead of me. Can you blame me for backing out?”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Harry asks. “We could have solved this, we could have made it work.” He doesn’t ask if they can salvage it. Before the wedding, maybe. But it’s too late now. Now he just wants an explanation.

Rather than give him one, Mark just shrugs, “No, we couldn’t have.”

“So, you just, what, decided that leaving me at the alter was the best solution?”

“Don’t be so melodramatic, Harry,” Mark says.

“It’s my goddamn wedding day,” Harry snaps. “I’ll be melodramatic if I want.” He sniffles, because damn it, he’s a Kingsman, a highly trained killing machine, and he is not about to cry. “Get out of my sight. I never want to see you again.”

“Harry-“

“I said go!”

Mark retreats. Harry hangs his head, threading his fingers through his hair, the product crunching under his fingers. He seriously contemplates ripping it out in anger and frustration.

Soft footsteps approach and then stop, and Hamish takes a seat next to him, stretching his long legs out on the stairs in front of him. His posture is casual, but is his voice is anything but. “Are you alright?”

“Just peachy,” Harry bites at him without looking up.

“Stupid question,” Hamish sighs. Then, “Did you really love him?”

Harry nods pathetically. “Is there something wrong with me?”

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Harry.”

“Really?” he asks. “Because I’m twenty-five years old and I’ve already been left at the alter twice. Twice, Merlin.”

“That’s not on you, Harry,” Hamish says. “That’s not your fault.”

“Maybe I’m just too shallow,” Harry says. “God, I fall in love at the drop of a hat, and I expect it all to work out? I knew Lucile since I was a child, built that relationship on a foundation of friendship, and that failed. I knew Mark for two years, rushed into things, and that failed. Maybe there really is something wrong with me.”

“Harry,” Hamish says gently, “there is nothing wrong with you. You’re gay. Whatever you and Lucile had wouldn’t have worked out in the long run anyway. You would have been miserable, she would have been miserable, and whatever friendship you had would have crumbled under the pressure. And now, you’re married to your job. Mark couldn’t really compete.”

“You’re taking his side?”

“I’m not taking his side. I’m saying that Kingsman doesn’t leave a lot of room for people on the outside. Mark isn’t exactly what I’d call the patient type, either. You need to find someone who is, or you need to accept that maybe a relationship just isn’t going to happen. You have a lot of love to give, Harry, but maybe you need to start thinking about sharing it in platonic ways. You have your family, parents who actually love and give a damn about you. You have Kingsman. And you have me.”

Harry stares up at his friend. Hamish looks back, his gaze steady. “You’re brilliant, do you know that?” Harry says on an impulse.

Hamish laughs, “I do, actually.”

Harry shoves him with his shoulder, “Shut up, _Hamish_.”

Hamish’s lips curl into that familiar, tiny grin of his. “Want to go back to my place and get a drink or three?”

“God, yes.”

 

3.

It’s in a fucking church again, but under the circumstances, Harry really isn’t going to be picky. There are a lot of people watching this time, and Harry thinks it’s rather progressive of all of them, considering most don’t really know who he is, and the fact that gay marriage is still a hotly debated topic. He looks across at Alistair, who gives him a small smile, blinking serenely at him from behind his glasses. How he never seems to get riled up by anything, Harry doesn’t know.

The officiant drones, “Should anyone here present know of any reason that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

There’s three full blissful seconds of silence, and then the church doors bang open with all the flare Harry has come to expect from James, who strides across the threshold and calls loudly, “I object!” At the halfway point down the aisle, he throws his arms open and proclaims, “Thomas, baby, I need you. I’ve always needed you. When you’re not around, it’s like the very air has been pulled from my lungs, the ground from under my feet. I dream about you every night, desperate to see your face. Without you, the sun and the moon and the earth might as well stop spinning, because you’re the centre of my whole world. You can’t marry him, Thomas, you just can’t. I love you so much, I think I would die of heartbreak if you went through with it.”

The scandalous whispers in the audience are highly amusing, especially given how _cheesy_ the declaration is, but Harry just barely manages to keep from sniggering. He does his best to look devastated as Alistair’s jaw drops in a very convincing act of surprise and then lunges for James.

James catches him, sweeping him into a dramatic kiss (he even _dips_ him, the show-off, and Alistair puts up with it goodhumoredly), and then they bolt. Harry takes his cue, calling out in voice that he hopes sounds choked with emotion, “Thomas, wait!” and chasing after them.

The three of them skid to a halt several blocks away, ducking into an alley. James has his arm around Alistair’s shoulders, and he’s laughing. Alistair, quiet as always, is smiling fondly at his partner. Harry leans up against the alley wall and finally allows himself a chuckle.

“Yes, yes, it’s all very funny,” Hamish says over the glasses. He sounds a bit grumpy. “The lot of you just love to make a spectacle, don’t you?”

“Oh, come on Merlin,” James says, still laughing, “that was fun.”

“Oh, forgive me,” Hamish says sarcastically, “I wasn’t aware that the mission of three agents trained in the art of espionage was to _have fun_.”

“Lighten up, Merlin,” James says cheerfully. “We accomplished the mission.”

“We did,” Harry says. “Admittedly, James could have been a bit more subtle, but it hasn’t hurt anything.”

“Five months of undercover work for you and Percival, and Lancelot has to swoop in like a great bloody peacock and draw unneeded attention to the lot of you.”

“Oh, hush,” Harry teases. “It’s my wedding day. A bit of attention is expected.”

“A bit, maybe,” Hamish’s tone takes on a tinge of bitterness, and Harry blinks. “But there’s a difference between a bit of drama and that bit of theatrics you just pulled.”

“Is the extraction team on its way?” Harry asks in an attempt to placate the tech wizard.

He can practically hear Hamish’s eye roll across the coms, “Yes, the extraction team is on its way, Galahad. If the three of you can stay out of trouble for two minutes, it’ll pick you up.”

“Don’t worry, Merlin,” Alistair says. “I’ll keep an eye on these two.”

“Someone needs to,” Hamish says, but there’s no heat in his voice. “My job isn’t to babysit you lot.”

“Well, it kind of is,” Harry points out, just to hear Hamish groan.

“You love us,” James grins at Harry, who shifts and frowns at the oddly pointed look.

“Yes, yes,” Hamish grouses. “I expect your reports to be _on time_ , do you understand me?”

“Yes, Merlin,” they chorus.

When he signs off, Harry asks James, “What was that look for?”

“Oh, come on,” James gives him _another_ pointed look, no clearer to Harry than the first one. “Don’t tell me you don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

James’s eyes flick to Alistair, who clears his throat, “I believe the point James is trying to make is that you and our dear tech wizard are hopelessly in love with each other.”

Harry chokes, “I beg your pardon? Merlin and I are _friends_.”

“No, Merlin and I are friends,” James says. “Merlin and Alistair are friends. You and Merlin are practically married.”

Harry looks back and forth between the two of them, utterly stunned. “I’m not…we aren’t…”

“Look, I’m the first person to admit that I don’t know what the hell I’m doing,” James says. “But I do know something about love.” His eyes flick to Alistair, and a small smile graces the other agent’s lips. He continues, “You and Merlin? That’s love. The real, ‘I’ll sit here and wait for you for as long as it takes, because you’re worth it’ kind of love. And in this line of work, you take that wherever you can get it.”

 

+1

“He’s not going to come,” Harry whispers. He doesn’t want to mess up his suit by bunching his hands in the material, so he clenches his fists instead. He squeezes his eyes…eye shut, as if choosing not to see the lack of his partner’s presence means it won’t hurt so badly when it turns out to be true. “He’s not going to come.”

“He’ll be here,” Eggsy says. He nudges Harry, “Why wouldn’t he?”

Harry opens his eyes and glances back at his best man. “Eggsy, I don’t exactly have the best track record with weddings.”

“You was at my wedding. Turned out just fine.”

“With _my own_ weddings,” Harry clarifies. They’re far enough in the past that they don’t quite sting anymore, far enough that he hadn’t even bothered to tell Eggsy about them.

Eggsy blinks, “You got married?”

“No,” Harry says, “that’s rather the point. Both times the other person decided that I really wasn’t worth the effort.”

“Merlin ain’t gonna be like that,” Eggsy says. “He loves you. He’ll be here.”

The officiant gives them a look, and Harry falls silent. His eyes scan across the crowd. His parents are in the front row looking nervous and alternating between watching Harry and watching the back of the rows of chairs, probably remembering Harry’s first wedding. Alistair is standing at the back, glancing around much like Harry is. The rest of the Kingsman staff in attendance, notably Morgana, who said that after all the time Harry spent with her in the medical wing, she damn deserved an invitation to his wedding, are murmuring amongst themselves. The few friends of theirs outside work keep craning their necks back every time the whispering picks up or dies down. Even Elton fucking John at the piano is watching Alistair watch for Hamish so he can start on his cue. And they’re all going to get to see what a fuck up Harry Hart is in love.

He closes his eye again, and shudders. He and Hamish are ten years of love and thirty years of friendship in the making. He doesn’t want to lose him.

Then, softly, the piano starts up. Harry wants to cry and laugh all at the same time. It’s not “Here Comes the Bride” (Hamish had given Harry a filthy look for suggesting it, even though Harry had been joking). No, Hamish had put his foot down – metaphorically - and insisted on his favourite song, and Harry is so, _so_ glad that it’s playing in this moment, because the last time he heard “Country Roads” was also what he thought was going to be the last time he saw his partner alive and this memory is completely writing over the last one, turning the song back from tragic to joyful again as it echoes through the clear air, the sun beaming down on them and making the flowers burst into life like something out of a romance film.

By the time he opens his eyes, Hamish is taking the last few steps, Alistair as his best man at his heels and moving subtly in case he needs to catch him every time Hamish stumbles a little. Each time, Hamish stubbornly waves it off, and Harry can’t help but smile with affection. “Sorry I’m late,” Hamish whispers when he draws level with Harry. He gestures down to his legs, “These things were a bitch to get on.”

He’s still not used to the prosthetics, but the months of physical therapy have really paid off. Hamish straightens up under Harry’s appreciative gaze, which sweeps from Merlin’s beautiful soft eyes down past his kilt and to his metal toes before backtracking to land on his face again. Harry turns and nods to the officiant, who begins.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today-“

“Actually, if you don’t mind,” Hamish interrupts him, his eyes locked with Harry’s, “do you think you could skip to the important part?”

Harry laughs. The officiant looks exasperated, but obliges, “Do you, Harry Reginald Hart, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do,” Harry breathes out. Hamish turns and takes the ring from Alistair, and it takes a minute of fumbling for them to get it on Harry’s finger, because Harry’s hands are shaking so badly. Hamish quirks an eyebrow at him, and Harry returns it, not needing words to convey what Hamish understands from just a look.

“And do you, Hamish Ian Grey, take this man to be you lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do.” Harry feels close to tears, happy ones this time, and he’d feel betrayed that Hamish doesn’t look nearly so affected if he didn’t know how stoically Scottish the man is. He takes the ring when Eggsy enthusiastically shoves it into his hand, and he takes Hamish’s hand between his, sliding the ring down his long, slender finger and admiring the simple gold band against his skin.

“Then I now pronounce you married. You may kiss.”

Even before the last word is out of the officiant’s mouth, Harry lunges for Hamish, only just pulling short of knocking him off his man-made feet, one arm wrapped around his back and the other hand cradling his cheek, Hamish’s hands coming up reflexively to grip his shoulders. He kisses him, and Hamish kisses back, and that’s Eggsy wolf-whistling and Alistair’s quiet laugh and his mother’s sobs, but Harry doesn’t care because this is the man he loves, and he’s going to keep him forever.

When he pulls away, not letting go of Hamish, he hisses, “After all the times you’ve told me off about being late, then you’re late to our _wedding_?”

“What can I say?” Hamish teases him. “It must be a Hart thing.”

“You’d better make it up to me, _Hamish Hart_.” And oh, doesn’t that sound lovely. Harry should say that as often as possible.

Hamish rolls his eyes, “Merlin, Harry.”

Harry kisses him again. “Hush. It’s our wedding day.”


End file.
